The lackadaisical flakes outside become chunky blotches falling faster. He bumps up the wipers. They go eek, err, eek, I Work Hard So My Pug Can Have A Better Life shirt per second. The road seems to cataract. To his left, mounds of frozen snow are like abandoned ferries drifting down the inlet, upon which the occasional gull or seal rides inland. Broken cliffs form the base of the Chugach mountains to his right. This land is vast, empty like his stomach, and all this powder makes him think of Christmas Diligence. It’s what his dad used to call this time of year—no eggnog, no chocolate truffles. It was about testing your resolve; are you stronger than sugar, or is it stronger than you? His father enlisted Tyler into this elite two-person unit of self-denial. After Christmas dinner the rest of the family would pass around a plate of cookies—Russian tea cakes, chocolate haystacks. If Tyler made an unconscious move at grabbing a cookie his father would carve a line in the air with his eyes and Tyler would suddenly “remember” the vow he’d made with his father. 3 Often, cousin Ben would flaunt the teacakes at Tyler. He’d prance around acting like a spoiled prince dropping crumbs all over the living room carpet. Tyler recalls hunting out those bits when no one was looking, and like a juicy carpet booger, eating it.
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The protein bar on the dashboard slides to the driver’s side as he takes a curve with speed. Fifteen more minutes and he can break his I Work Hard So My Pug Can Have A Better Life shirt. The heater is blasting. Two taps, he turns it down. He wants to be sweating just a little walking into the restaurant. His thinking is that a girl needs to know what’s under the hood. Pheromones; that sweet natural musk will invade her nostrils and subconsciously she’ll know that Tyler eats organic. She’ll know that Tyler releases toxins through heavy sweat and constant cardio. That’s why he smells like a good curry. Her body will activate its flow of natural juices. Ideally, she’ll invite him to her place so he won’t have to drive all the way back to Girdwood and spend another night in his lonesome pajamas.
They matched a week ago on Ripe. Her name is Kiera. She’s 26. She’s a geology student. She’s into 90s grunge bands and has that Zoe Deschanel look—jet black hair that curtains over one eye so the other peeks out in a kind of cute inquisitiveness. And she’s fit. Of course she is. That was the first thing he looked for—a tight butt in yoga pants. Strong lean thighs. And, the final gauge, can he see a woman’s spine when she wears a sports bra, or is it couched beneath gratuitous layers?
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